A HAND SHOOK HER AWAKE.

Her eyes hadn't opened yet, but she had already struck, grabbing her assailant by the neck and kicking off from the ground to push whoever it was to the floor, nails digging into soft skin.

"Leonor," they gasped. "It's okay. It's me."

Her eyes flew open, blinking away the sleep that clouded them. She took in the auburn hair, the freckles, the high cheekbones, and she scrambled away, pressing her back once more to the wall.

"Heinrik."

He sat up, rubbing at his neck. "You know, for your size, your grip is really tight."

He watched her for a quiet moment, and she wondered what he was seeing that left him so speechless. After what seemed like an eternity, he asked, "What were you dreaming about, Leonor?"

She plucked her fur hat off the hay-strewn loft floor. It must've fallen when she'd sprung up to attack Heinrik, half asleep. As she dusted it off, the word for this kind of fur hat, one with flaps to cover her ears, wormed its way into her sleep-addled mind. Ushanka.

"The usual," she responded.

He stared for a bit longer before he reached over, handing her a flask. She unscrewed the cap and took a long, deep drink. Water had never tasted so good before. It cascaded over the dry parts of her throat, flowing down her gullet as she swallowed. She hadn't realized she'd finished off the contents until she tipped it back all the way, trying to capture whatever was left.

"Sorry," she muttered.

Heinrik waved a dismissive hand. "We have more. About the food—"

"Save it for Mun."

Heinrik laughed at her, the early morning light from the window hitting the highest planes of his face. "I thought we didn't finish each other's sentences anymore."

"Old habits die hard. What happened after I fell asleep?"

"Ahmed transported Hassan inside." He nodded at where Hassan snored in the corner adjacent, injured leg splayed out in front of him. "After that, Ahmed and I drove the car back to the Ummerlingen. We shadow walked back."

"And what now?" she asked.

He tossed her the coat she'd traded for Ipatiev's yesterday. She donned it without question. Heinrik had already changed, handsome in the dark grey-green of his standard issue coat.

"You and I are going to head into town. Ahmed is going to take us to Romhalde's edge. We need to find some medicine for Mun and Hassan, and some food if we can manage it."

"How much money do you have?"

He reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out his triangular coin pouch. The coins jingled merrily from within. "Fifty marks, give or take."

Leonor snatched the pouch from him, her hands blurring when they moved. She tore it open, staring into its depths. "More than we need," she grumbled.

"Can't be too careful."

"You nobles are all the same."

He leaned in, smirking. "Feeling bitter?"

She tossed his pouch back and pinched his pointy nose. "Only partially."

Heavy footfalls on the stairs made Leonor freeze in place. Ahmed leaned up against the wall, blowing an errant curl away from one piercing emerald eye. "If you two are done flirting," he said, "you might want to let me take you out of here."

Heinrik's lips parted. Leonor yanked her hand away from his nose, scoffing.

"That's not flirting," snapped Leonor.

"Then what was it?"

"Banter."

Ahmed listed his head, waving her off. "Same thing. Are you ready?"

Heinrik stood first, offering Leonor his hand. She took it, and he hauled her up. She felt painfully short now that they were shoulder to shoulder.

Though he'd stomped recklessly on the stairs, Ahmed was as sinuous as a cat when he moved over the floor of the loft, sidestepping his snoring brother, feet soft when he neared Mun. He held out his hands—one for Leonor, and one for Heinrik—when he came close.

"Don't let go of me," he told them. "Especially you, Leonor."

She clutched at him. She hadn't shadow walked as often as the others, and when Ahmed stepped forward, eyes glowing, taking them with him into the blank void between strings, she remembered why. Looking at the weave always gave her a feeling of unease, like she was looking at something that might swallow her whole. Being in it was worse. There was nothing earthly in this other plane; blackness surrounded them on every side, no ground or sky to speak of. Ahmed guided them through the maze of strings, keeping to the void between them, however narrow it seemed to be. She looked down and regretted it; there was nothing beneath her, nothing at all, besides a dizzying mess of crisscrossing threads and darkness.

This was the bedrock of the universe, the makings of everything that hid in plain sight, and she, one of the lucky few who would ever see it. The threads glistened like silk, though there was no light to shine upon them anywhere. They were beautiful, no matter how much her guts twisted when she looked at them.

"Coming up on Romhalde," Ahmed said, voice echoing in her ears. "Hold your breath."

Leonor filled her lungs with the stale air of the void, slowing her steps to match Ahmed's. As he searched for an exit, she pushed a floating string away from her face. It zapped at her fingers, sticking to her like her hair was wont to stick to wool in winter. She shook it off in the same moment that the weave faded into the edge of a high snow bank overlooking a narrow alleyway into Romhalde.

Ahmed's hand slipped away from hers. He spared them both a smile and nod. "See you two later. I expect a feast." Then, eyes still glowing something fierce, he stepped off the snow bank and let the shadows catch him, melting away until he was gone.

Heinrik sniffed the air. "I'm in the mood for some bratwurst."

Leonor's stomach growled. "You're better off getting a brezel in these parts. Romhalde's famous for them."

He jumped from the snow bank, landing gracefully on the cobblestone below. He held out a hand for her, waiting. She huffed and jumped herself, bending her knees to save herself from the force of the impact.

"I have legs," she explained matter-of-factly.

He looked down, quirking an eyebrow. "Really? I couldn't tell."

She shoved him. He stumbled, nearly landing amongst a rusted rubbish bin that smelled faintly of rot. He let out a quiet gasp, and when he righted himself, he pounced, shoving her into the snow bank they'd just jumped from. Her hands darted out as she fell, taking hold of Heinrik's collar, dragging him down with her.

Their landing knocked the wind out of her, snow puffing up around them and falling back to earth in the same moment.

"You're—heavy!" she cried. "Get off!"

He squirmed. "You started it!"

"What are we, children? Heinrik, come on!"

"Hey! I'll have none of that behind my shop, do you hear?!"

Heinrik rolled off. Leonor held his shoulder, pulling herself up when he did. At the mouth of the alley, leading into town, a stout man brandishing a pair of bread tongs was stalking towards them. As one, Leonor and Heinrik got to their feet, unconsciously backing away.

"We fell," admonished Heinrik. "We're not—" He looked Leonor's way. They both shuddered. "We would never..."

The stout man's cheeks grew red as he beheld them. Those bread tongs were starting to look like a weapon in his hands. "You kids must think this is so funny," he boomed. "Will it be funny when you have my tongs on your backsides? If my customers saw you, I'd be out of business!" He raised his tongs, watery eyes flitting from Heinrik to Leonor and back again, as if trying to decide who to punish first. But then he paused—he looked to Leonor one more time, his tongs wavering in the air.

"Leonor Weiss?"

Leonor's heart skipped a beat, grateful that she had been spared from the dreaded bread tongs, if only for a moment.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said all too suddenly. "That's not my name."

The man narrowed his eyes, shaking his head. "Don't play dumb with me, girl. You used to come into my bakery and beg me for scraps at the end of the day."

She gaped at him. He did look familiar. The watery blue eyes, the tuft of red-blond hair, the tomato-coloured cheeks and the distended stomach—she knew him. Her hands felt hot, like she was still holding the oven-fresh bread he'd spared for her so often. His name was on the tip of her tongue... "Herr Klein?"

His vicious expression eased. "What are you doing back in Romhalde? Last I saw, you left town to join the military."

"I..." She couldn't find the words. The left side of her body stung with shame. Heinrik knew she was an orphan, but she'd never told him the truth: that there had never been enough food, and that she'd had to beg on the streets until Walter Klein had taken pity on her and given her bread so she wouldn't starve.

But if Heinrik was judging her for this revelation, he didn't show it. He put a hand on her shoulder, steadying her, and said, "Thank you for deciding not to beat us, Herr Klein, but we'd best be going."

Klein raised his tongs again, swatting Heinrik's bicep. Heinrik yowled, clutching his arm.

"Did you really think I was done with you?" Klein turned back to Leonor. "Why don't you come in for a brezel or two, ja? You can bring the buffoon, too."

"Herr Klein..." she sighed. The coaxing look in his eyes and the promise of fresh food was too much to bear. "Alright," she conceded.

He motioned for her to follow him, tongs misted up in the freezing air. She took a step forward, only for Heinrik to pull her back.

"What?" she hissed.

"Do you trust him?"

"Not as much as I trust you," she admitted.

Heinrik's lips parted. He said nothing; he linked arms with her instead, and together they followed Klein out of the alley.

✵   

They watched Romhalde through the foggy windows of Klein's bakery, sat side by side in two rickety chairs. Heinrik seemed keen to observe every little detail, watching the shivering passersby hurry into the shops across the street. A single car was parked by a nearby streetlamp, though it looked like the car had been there for a while—snow was weighing it down wherever it could reach. Leonor searched the worn signs of the stores for any bit of familiarity, but too much had changed. Some were boarded up. Others had windows painted with the words out of business in stark red. The few that remained open saw a light stream of customers. Leonor had counted five so far, four of whom had been women walking in a group with a man tagging along behind them, all heading into a shop selling sausages.

"Sorry about the state of the place," Klein said conversationally, handing them each a plate piled high with butterbrezel, cheese, sliced meats, and bratwurst. "I haven't had much business since the Solnayans took over."

Leonor looked about the bakery. The faded cream wallpaper was still there, the floor made of varnished cherry wood. The smell of bread and pastries was thick in the warm air, though the shelves that had been laden with goods six years ago were now empty.

"It's the same as ever," she mumbled, scratching at the filigree of painted flowers on the rim of her plate.

Klein slid a pair of utensils to her, and then to Heinrik, from across the table. At last he sat down on the edge of his seat, steepling his fingers.

There was a pregnant pause.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked. "Eat."

"What are you waiting for?" Heinrik shot back, clearing his throat when the rotund baker turned a nasty glare on him. "Herr Klein," he added respectfully.

"Where did you find this one, Leonor?"

"He's my superior."

"Superior?" Klein snorted. "Who are you, anyway?"

Heinrik blanched. He scratched the back of his head and picked up his knife and fork, digging in without another word.

Leonor pursed her lips. She swore she could've cut the tension between Klein and Heinrik with the knife in her left hand. Instead, she cut a piece off her brezel, mashing it into her mouth with the meat and cheese. She chewed and swallowed. Klein stared.

"Herr Klein," she began, "is there something you need from us?"

He frowned, the lines on his portly face deepening. "I don't need anything from you," he hedged.

"Herr Klein," she repeated. "Really, if there's anything you need..." She set her knife and fork down on either side of her plate. "You've been good to me in the past."

His frown grew. He opened his mouth and closed it again, over and over. Finally, setting his hands down, palms flat on the table, he said, "This has to stop."

Leonor waited. Heinrik looked up from his plate.

"The occupation?" Heinrik questioned.

Klein shook his head. "The war."

"That's what we're here for, Herr Klein," Leonor told him. "We..." She looked to Heinrik, searching for approval. He nodded. She turned back to Klein. "The rumours are true. The king was searching for special children. Children with the Sight. Like me. Like Heinrik. There are others, Herr Klein, five of us who've sworn our loyalty to King Wilhelm to stop this madness once and for all. We've come to Romhalde to liberate it. This is the first step of many." She leaned over the table, and her right fist met the wood beneath it, rattling her plate. "This is how we end a war."

In the following silence, it was Heinrik that spoke first. "We understand that things have been difficult for you here, Herr Klein, as well as for Romhalde's other citizens. It's been a hard two months, I'm sure—"

"You're nobility, aren't you?" Klein interjected. "From some important family, surely?"

Heinrik frowned. "I don't see how that's important. I'm trying to help."

"Yes, yes, you're trying to help, alright. Sure. But have you heard yourself, boy?"

"Heard myself?"

"You don't know this war like I do. Like everyone in Romhalde does. Like Leonor." He nodded at her. "Where were you raised?"

"Herr Klein, please..." Leonor moved her hand across the table, unsure of what she was truly reaching for.

Klein shook his head. "Let him answer me."

"Hallenstadt," Heinrik disclosed after a moment of quiet. "On the south side of the Anskamp River."

"You don't get to live that close to King Wilhelm unless you've got something to offer him."

Something worked in Heinrik's jaw. "I've offered him my life and service."

"What of your father?"

Heinrik bowed his head. "He's the king's financial advisor, Alfons von Griffin."

Klein leaned back, spreading his arms. "The man who benefits the most from this conflict."

The tips of Heinrik's ears grew pink. "You act like he started it. The Solnayans were the ones who hopped the border and struck first. The Solnayans are the ones who want our land."

"The Solnayans want those things?" Klein threw his head back and laughed. "Don't be so ignorant. I've seen Solnayan soldiers lazing about in the streets. I've seen them pull out lockets and pictures and clutch at their hearts and think of home. I see it in their faces. They are fighting someone else's war, von Griffin, and so are you."

Leonor thought of Ipatiev—of his scruffy brown hair, the coarse stitches of the letters of his name in the collar of his coat, the picture of his young wife and child—and she looked away, barely able to stifle the memory.

"We all want this to end," Heinrik said. "We all do."

"Do you know about the orphans? The children left parentless by this pointless war?"

"I do."

"Do you know about the Solnayan Major, Dorokhov, that killed five Leis children the day the occupation began? We tried to fight back, but they had guns and grenades and bayonets. When we lost, he picked them at random and shot them before our eyes. They were left in the streets, bodies freezing in the snow, because we were all forbidden to leave our homes. Have you seen anything like that? Blood? Bodies? Death?"

Heinrik's knuckles were turning white in his lap. "I have."

"And do you know, thirteen years ago when all of this started, about the child that showed up on the doorstep of Romhalde's only orphanage? It was already full to the brim when she arrived, frail and tiny, bones broken. Her parents were taken by this game of mindless murder, and she sits to your right, ready to fight for a king that hardly cares for her at all."

Heinrik pushed his chair out and stood. He didn't speak when he strode to the door and yanked it open.

Leonor stood, too, calling after him. He didn't turn for her, stalking off into the snow.

"Why would you say that to him?" she demanded.

Klein turned his watery eyes on her. "Was I wrong, Leonor?"

She hesitated, taken aback. "What?" Then, remembering herself, she snapped, "Yes! About all of it!"

She tore from the bakery, following Heinrik out into the cold. His long legs had taken him a good block or two down the street in the time it had taken her to get outside. She hurried after him, the cold air flying into her mouth and choking her whenever she tried to shout his name.

The streets of Romhalde were as narrow as she remembered them. As Heinrik wound through them, Leonor following closely behind, she stared around in wonder. It was as if a new Romhalde had been built up on top of the new one, crushing what had come before. New shops had popped up on every corner—produce, butcheries, bakeries that could've even rivalled Herr Klein's. But for every new shop that she saw, five more were shut down and boarded up, nails sticking haphazardly out of splintered wood, or otherwise completely blown to bits, rubble scattered about the snow-covered ground. With supply lines cut, and rations being doled out by the Solnayan invaders, reparations were impossible.

Her stomach growled. She'd barely had anything off that heaping plate of food, but the citizens of Romhalde were nearly starved. She wondered if those brezels had been some of Klein's last stores to give away.

"Heinrik!" she bellowed over the howling of the wind. "Heinrik, stop!"

He didn't answer her. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed to the wind. He turned a corner and she ran after him.

"You don't even know where you're going!" she yelled.

He continued on, ignoring her.

The road here grew smaller. Filth cornered them in, garbage and rusted metal and the discarded bolt of a rifle. Sitting atop of a long munitions box were two tan-coated, ushanka-wearing Solnayan soldiers speaking in low voices to each other. They both looked up as Leonor passed, watching her with empty eyes, before returning to their conversation.

"Heinrik!" she shouted again. "Please!"

He glanced back like he was surprised she was still following him. "What are you doing, Leonor?"

"Making sure you don't get yourself in trouble. What do you think?"

He slowed, allowing her to catch up. She did so gladly, her legs aching from chasing after him. He was a comfort at her side, his warmth familiar. Their arms brushed as they walked.

"He was wrong about you," she said after a while. "He was wrong about all of it."

Heinrik dipped his head. "Was he?"

"Of course he was. Herr Klein doesn't know anything about you. He doesn't know how you suffered through training, how your father nearly threatened to disown you, how we faced Solnayans yesterday and you killed one. Did you even sleep last night?"

Heinrik sighed. "No. I didn't. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could still hear the crack of his neck being snapped."

"Exactly. We've all made sacrifices for this war—"

"Some more than others," he cut in solemnly.

"So what?"

"So, I want to know what you really think. Was Klein wrong?" He lowered his gaze, long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. "Or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

Leonor pressed her lips together. All she could manage was, "It doesn't matter what he said about you."

"Is that it, then?" questioned Heinrik, planting his feet into the ground. "You're just going to follow me, blindly, even when he was right?"

"He wasn't—"

"He was! I thought I knew everything, Leonor. I thought we could end this—you, me, Mun, the twins—but I failed to realize the simple fact that I know nothing. I said this must have been hard for him. Gods, how stupid was I? It's not just hard when you're starving, when people die every day, when children are made orphans by the force of this war." He screwed his face up in a strange expression of anguish. "You didn't even tell me how you got here."

She wanted to tell him that she hadn't been able to remember it until now. She wanted to say that none of it mattered, that this was stupid, that they should have been finding medicine and getting back to the rest of the Adlerauge—but she couldn't. She did remember the casts they put her arms into, her ankles, her legs. She remembered the pain. The recovery. The deep cut on the back of her neck that had formed a raised scar, forever a reminder.

"He was right," said Heinrik again, glancing away. "I didn't know what this war was until yesterday. I think that I still don't know enough."

"You couldn't have known," Leonor muttered.

"But I should have."

They stared at each other while the wind whipped at their forms, filling in the quiet when they themselves couldn't.

Finally, Heinrik exhaled, a trail of white fog exiting his nostrils. "Would you like to go back to the bakery?"

"Well, I haven't finished my breakfast yet."

Heinrik managed a small smile. "I'll take that as a yes, then. Good." He ruffled her hair, shaking a few strands free of her bun, the look in his hazel eyes serious. "I have a favour to ask of Herr Klein."

✵

They made their way back to the barn as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The others had been expecting them; it was rare that anyone could sneak up on any member of the Adlerauge. Leonor came up the stairs first, the wood creaking underneath her feet, and tossed a bag full of brezels into Ahmed's brown hands.

"Look who's back," Ahmed greeted. He stuck his head in the bag, breathing deeply. "Ah. Yes. I'm full already."

Heinrik made his way to the middle of the floor, kneeling beside Mun. "How is she?"

Mun cracked an eye open. "I am here. I am awake."

Leonor didn't miss Heinrik's startled breath. He'd clearly thought her to be sleeping.

"Of course you are," he agreed.

Mun raised her head, sniffing at the air. "I smell food."

Ahmed slid the bag across the floor too. He'd taken a brezel for himself, chewing on the soft, twisted bread. "Here."

Mun reached over with her right hand, grabbing the bag and pulling it over her body. She bit into her brezel with relish before handing the paper bag to Hassan, who lay beside her on the hay-strewn floor.

"Good to see that you're okay," Leonor said.

Mun smiled at her, cheeks hollow, expression sunny. Leonor could see bits of chewed-up brezel in her teeth. "I have been shot with arrows before. Is common. I will heal."

"By whom?"

"My brothers. Do you want to see the scars?"

Leonor held up her hands. "I'm fine. Thanks."

Mun shrugged, as if to say, suit yourself. "I shot them, too," she said offhandedly. "Revenge is fun."

Heinrik leaned over Mun, pushing away the wrappings over her wound.

"I melted snow onto it," Ahmed informed him. "The bullet must've been burning hot when it got her. The whole thing's cauterized." He shrugged. "It'd probably do more harm than good to go around digging in there for the shell."

Heinrik glanced back at Leonor, nodding. "We visited a doctor. He said the same thing."

"Do you have any medicine?" asked Mun.

Leonor pulled a pillbox out of her pocket and threw it to Heinrik, who showed Mun the contents.

"To be taken twice daily with food and drink," she explained. "You'd be better off taking one right now."

"Remember to share with Hassan," Heinrik added.

Mun turned her head, looking over at Hassan, who stared back. She held out the pillbox to him. As if imparting some secret upon each other, they began to giggle in a manner that was almost nefarious.

Ahmed frowned. "Should I be worried?"

Hassan snickered. "No more than usual."

Heinrik rolled his eyes and retrieved a flask from within his coat. Immediately, all eyes found him, staring pointedly at the metal in his hands.

"It's not for drinking!" he said quickly.

Ahmed was the first to look away. Hassan made his disinterest plain, snorting and returning his attention to his brezel. Mun snatched the flask from Heinrik, unscrewing it and smelling its contents. It must have satisfied her; she bared the hole the bullet had made in her shoulder, burst blood vessels and purple bruising showing through her skin, and poured the alcohol within onto it. Her face was the perfect picture of ease, angular eyes nearly dull.

She passed it off to Hassan when she was done. He was not so stoic. When the alcohol in the flask made contact with the scratch on his calf, he grit his teeth and moaned. Mun laughed at him.

Heinrik gave out bandages to Hassan. Ahmed, perhaps feeling obligated, came to wrap the scratch for his brother. But rather than let anyone else take care of Mun, it was Heinrik himself who leaned forward, wiping and wrapping her wound with his gentle hands.

"You're going to be fine," he murmured to her. "The Altanese are a strong people. I believe that you are no different."

Mun gazed up at him, stars in her eyes. Mun had been the last to join the Adlerauge after a relentless campaign by King Wilhelm to find the Altanese girl that could control sound itself. After she'd been brought to Quellfluss, pale and dark-haired with a bow clutched in her grip, she had refused to talk to anyone, training with the rest of them in silence for nine whole months.

Though she had never spoken, Leonor had seen the way Mun looked at everyone when she thought no one was paying attention. There was disapproval in those dark eyes, contempt in the set of her jaw, a smug smirk on her lips. She would finger her calluses whenever she saw another person's hands, perhaps marvelling at her own strength and detesting the softness, the weakness, in everyone else. It was only Heinrik that Mun had seemed to envy. Heinrik, with his impenetrable skin. Heinrik, with the strength of ten wild bears. And if Heinrik trusted the rest of them—Ahmed, Hassan, and Leonor herself—Mun must have seen fit to follow suit.

"Thank you," replied Mun, taking Heinrik's big hands in her own. "You honour me, Sergeant Heinrik."

Heinrik went red. "You—you honour me, Munkhtsetseg," he stammered.

Leonor made a show of clearing her throat, revealing the folded piece of parchment she'd kept hidden in her pocket. "I'd like to get down to business."

Everyone looked up, startled, as if suddenly remembering the situation they were in.

Leonor stood and made her way to the middle of the space, unfolding the parchment and laying it out over the wood.

"What is that?" Hassan asked.

"Is that—" Mun paused, squinting. "A spotted bison?"

"What?" Leonor gestured at the parchment. "It's a map of Romhalde. I drew it myself."

She thought she might've heard Ahmed laugh, right before he covered his mouth and coughed loudly. "Looks great," he wheezed.

Heinrik stepped in, pointing at the parchment, and Leonor breathed a sigh of relief.

"Leonor's right," he said. "We're here for a reason. Right?"

They all nodded. He took a deep breath in and continued.

"And speaking of here..." He put his index finger on the parchment, pressing it onto the hastily drawn barn and farmlands on the southeast corner of the map. "This is where we are."

Ahmed strode across the floor of the loft, crouching by the parchment. "Are those trees?"

He looked up to Leonor for confirmation. She glared at him.

Heinrik ignored the both of them. "Leonor and I went around town today. She marked down the places where we saw patrols and soldiers. They're concentrated on the road that leads west, towards Duke Berengar's mansion. That's Major Dorokhov's base of operations."

"Dorokhov?" Hassan questioned. "The man that lead the invasion?"

"This one and the last one, thirteen years ago." Heinrik sighed. "He's trying to finish what he started." He moved his finger northwest, circling the crude three boxes that represented the Berengar mansion. "Every road leading up to the mansion is barricaded, with soldiers posted at every turn. There's no way we'd get in just walking there." He smiled. "Not that we'd need to walk at all."

"Well, we'd still be walking," Ahmed pointed out. "Just not where any normal person would see."

Heinrik nodded. "Exactly."

Hassan craned his neck out, slinging an arm over Mun, pushing himself up to see better. "So, what's the plan, boss?"

"Dorokhov's calling all the shots, you see. He's experienced. But the bulk of the soldiers we saw today—they're all young, barely older than us. They've got lives back home." He looked at each of them in turn. "They're fighting someone else's war."

Leonor's lips parted.

"If we take out Dorokhov," said Heinrik, "we take down the whole operation. His forces will scatter like ants. There won't be enough time to delegate. With any luck, that inexperience will work to our advantage. Nobody's expecting five kids with the Sight to swoop in and take Dorokhov down, once and for all. They don't know what we can do. Let's make it count."

"You're inspiring me," Ahmed deadpanned. "Stop it."

Mun poked at her bandages. "Even if we do surprise them, we are only five." She held up a hand. "And they are..." she trailed off.

"More than five?" offered Hassan.

She grinned with approval. "Yes."

Heinrik glanced sideways at Leonor. She stared back. They nodded at each other.

"I know we're outnumbered as we are right now. We couldn't possibly face off against a contingent of Solnayans, no matter their age. But we want to free Romhalde, don't we?"

Ahmed made a sound of agreement. Hassan gave a thumbs up. Mun poked at her bandages again, still smiling her effervescent smile.

"Well, Romhalde wants that, too."

The realization dawned on the other three. Leonor couldn't suppress the swelling of excitement and anticipation in her chest. This was the favour Heinrik had asked of Walter Klein: to draw on the desperation of the people of Romhalde for it all to end—for there to be peace, once and for all. To ask, plainly, if they were willing to take that peace for themselves.

"We'll split up. Ahmed, Mun—you're coming with me. We're going to shadow walk into the Berengar mansion and take out Major Dorokhov as swiftly as we can. Hassan, Leonor—you're both going to wait here, close to the bell tower. As soon as the Solnayans realize we're out to get Dorokhov, they'll be expecting reinforcements. You need to pick off as many Solnayans as possible and protect the citizens where you can." He leaned over the map, thumb over the crudely drawn bell tower. "This is our foothold. We have to take it."

Ahmed tugged on one of his curls, straightening it, then let it go, allowing to spring back into position. "Why do you think this will go according to plan, Heinrik?"

"I don't," Heinrik responded. "But this is all we have. His Majesty is expecting this of us. He wants us to prove our worth. We could be put on the front lines after this. We could be infiltrating Solnaya. No one knows for sure." He shrugged. "We'll never make a difference if we don't start now."

"Inventory," Leonor murmured.

Ahmed opened his rucksack. "Three grenades. Revolver. A bag of bullets."

"I have my bow and arrows," Mun said, holding up her bone-white birch wood bow. "Pistol and bullets, too."

Hassan dug into his rucksack, the same black colour as his brother's. "Handgun, ammunition, and a can of chlorine gas."

"I have my knives and rifle," Leonor told them. "Not too many rounds, though."

"Are you counting the ones we sourced from the car?" asked Heinrik.

"Of course."

He reached over for his belongings. "I have..." He paused. "One handgun, an assortment of bullets, and..." He paused again. "A bottle of Kaiser's Finest." He pulled it out, puzzled. "Who put this in here?"

"Oh—uh, that's mine. Sorry." Hassan smiled sheepishly. He held out his hand for the bottle, though Heinrik didn't move. "What? Getting grazed with a bullet hurts! It's not my fault if I indulge a little."

"And you thought my bag was yours in your drunken stupor?"

"It was dark. For all I knew, I'd pitched it off the edge of the loft and down into one of the animal stalls."

Heinrik put it back in his own rucksack. "From now on, no one gets inebriated. Nobody."

"Boss..."

Leonor folded up her map and retreated to a corner with her rifle. She held the cool metal barrel close to her face, longing for her bunk at Quellfluss, of the pillow that smelled of pine needles and her threadbare, standard-issue sheets.

Mun shifted in place on her bed of coats. "What do you think happened to the Duke?"

"Maybe he ran off to join a circus," said Hassan.

Ahmed scoffed. "He's probably dead."

While the others continued to talk amongst themselves, Heinrik ambled over to her corner, setting his bag down beside him. Wordlessly, they both adjusted, sitting on the floor, turning until they were back to back. They'd done it in training, time and time again, especially on marches that left them having to make camp overnight. How could anyone sneak up on them, after all, if neither of their backs were turned?

Heinrik leaned the back of his head against hers. The weight of him was comforting.

"Do you really think Klein will do it?" he whispered. Now that they were out of earshot from the others, he'd found room to doubt himself and his plans.

"Any man with enough conviction to scold a Griffin has enough conviction to stand up to the Solnayans," she reassured him. "Have faith."

"Do you?" he questioned. "Have faith, I mean?"

She stared at the wall, holding her rifle close. "In Herr Klein? Of course. You should see what he can do with a pair of bread tongs."

"My arm still stings. I know what he can do well enough."

Her lips quirked up into a smile. She reached back, letting her hair down, tying her ribbon around her wrist. It tumbled about her shoulders, lank and blonde, her fringe lying flat over her forehead. She pressed her head against his more fully, the headache she hadn't known she'd had slowly dissipating.

"We're really going to do this, aren't we?" Heinrik's voice quivered. For his sake, she was glad no one else could hear him. "We could die."

The weight of his words settled in her stomach, a sour meal that wouldn't sit right. Her hand went for the back of her neck, rubbing her fingers over the raised scar.

"It's a better death than I've ever thought I'd have. You know." She took in a breath. "As an orphan. I'd be dying for Leisenstracht." She shrugged. "I think... I think that would be enough."

"For Leisenstracht," he echoed, before falling silent.

The day's activities caught up with her as the hum of chatter from the rest of the Adlerauge dwindled into nothing. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she didn't fight the strain of keeping them open, letting her lids meet.

Heinrik must've thought she was asleep. He shifted against her, hand reaching back until it closed over hers.

"But that wouldn't be enough," he murmured, squeezing her hand, hooking a finger underneath her ribbon. "Not for you, Leonor." His back was warm against hers. "I won't let it be."